


Greg Gives The Best Presents

by unknownsister



Series: Delicious Snacks [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We can't have sex.”<br/>“Who says we can't?”<br/>“I say we can't. How many drinks have you had tonight?”<br/>“Six.”<br/>“Eight, John.”<br/>“See, that's what I have you for.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greg Gives The Best Presents

**Author's Note:**

> Written in a five hour chunk for a 24 Hour Porn Challenge. I'm very poor at managing my time. This is for the [Come At Once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) community over on LJ, from the prompt foxgloveli gave me: "meeting is the beginning of parting." This might be a bit out of character as I've only read it through once after I finished, so any mistakes are my own, etc. This is set sometime in S2, probably. Let's pretend that Greg & John are happy, well-adjusted bisexuals for the sake of this work of fiction.

The wood under Greg's fingertips is worn smooth. Years of propped elbows, wipe downs, and glasses sliding flattened the wood grain. The football match on the TV above his head is muted, and he's seen it, but he watches it anyway with half his attention. He irritates himself with checking his phone every five minutes, so he places it on the bar next to his lager and waits.

Painfully punctual John Watson is late.

Greg received a text about two hours ago, short and to the point, like John.

_Pub?_

This isn't something that used to happen all that often, though that's been changing lately. Greg's not really sure why he agreed to meet this time. He likes John, but he doesn't know why he turns to him when surely he has other friends.

Greg reads a surprising amount for how much work he does and John picked up novels from care packages in his long hours under the Afghan sun. Neither one of them can watch football as often as they like, but they try to talk about the last match they both saw. The books and the sports fall away after a while and John gets down to the bottom of his second pint and they pretend not to talk about what's really bothering him.

It's always bloody Sherlock.

Greg thinks maybe John comes to him because he can sympathize. It's true that he can to a point – he's known Sherlock longer than John, knew him _back then_ , knows a few of his tells and fewer of his secrets. But John lives with the man – God only knows how – and Greg doesn't complain when John asks him down to the pub because if anyone needs an outlet, it's John Watson.

A brush of cold wind sweeps the back of his neck and a few heads turn to see the newcomer. John stands in the doorway for a moment, pulling his gloves off, before he spots Greg and weaves his way over.

The place is small and Greg picks up his pint, knocks on the bar to get another for John and they make their way to a booth towards the back. It's a Wednesday and the pub is fairly quiet, enough noise and heat to make things cozy. John drops heavily into his seat and begins to unwind his scarf. His face is strained and stung red from the cold.

“Rough day?”

John glares at him from the side while he pushes his coat off.

“Every day with Sherlock is a 'rough day'.”

Greg smiles and nods, ready to tell John the story about the criminal he'd caught the other day, the one who'd been dense enough to try and commit a robbery in an art studio and had left paint fingerprints on every surface he touched before fainting at the sight of Sally's handcuffs.

It gets the expected response. John laughs, the lines still on his face, but creasing in relief instead. Anything to get his mind off whatever made him want to come out in the first place.

Greg likes John's laugh, he notices not for the first time. At first he thought it was out of place, a little high pitched for a grown man, but as they've met more and more for these nights, he's come to find it endearing. It suits him, especially if he gets the giggles and goes all breathless, throwing his head back as his belly quakes. It's easier to make him laugh the more he drinks and Greg gets up to fetch them another round, waving off John's protests.

They chatter about the match on the screen, they argue about the new Murakami novel, then just as John's nearly finished his second drink, his phone buzzes next to his glass. All humor leaves his face and Greg wipes the back of his hand across his mouth slowly, watching John stare at his mobile, but not pick it up.

“Sherlock?”

John nods.

“Who else would it be? The only people who text me are you and him. Mycroft might leave a cryptic voicemail every one in a while.”

Greg smiles a little and waits for John to answer the message. He tucks the phone back in his pocket instead and chugs the end of his drink, pushing the empty to the side.

“You know he's going to just come here and fetch you if you don't answer.”

“I know.”

“You want him to come here?”

John frowns and looks off to the small crowd in the pub.

“It's my birthday today.”

Greg snuffles into his drink, dripping some over the sides of his glass. He sets it down and John doesn't look back, eyes now fixed on the highlights of the game.

“Why didn't you tell me it was your fucking birthday?”

“What would you have done? Thrown me a party? You, me, Mrs. Hudson, Molly maybe. Sherlock would find an excuse to mess everything up, or there'd be a sudden case, or...”

John waves his fingers and Greg knows he doesn't realize he looks like Sherlock when he does it.

“Since when are you so maudlin?”

“Since my best friend was especially horrible to me all day and then told me to stop sulking and go out to pick up one of my casual lays for the evening.”

“Ouch.”

“Mm. Actually, in his own words: 'Go wallow in your baser urges and find a willing bed so I don't have to look at your face anymore.'”

Greg grimaces and takes another sip.

“He said that! To me!”

John turns back, indignant, his cheeks flushed from drinking instead of cold now. It makes his eyes look even bluer and Greg wonders how old he is today. He can't be over forty. His hair is going gray around the temples, but it makes him look more distinguished, unlike Greg who'd gone prematurely gray at twenty-eight. Speaking of maudlin... He frowns at his drink as he realizes he could just ask him his age.

“How old are you?”

John draws a circle in the moisture on the table left from his drink.

“Thirty-nine.”

He writes 3-9 in sloppy lines and looks up to Greg. No one should look that miserable on their birthday.

“You know that's probably him texting you to apologize.”

John gives him a dubious stare. Greg shrugs.

“Well, as close to an apology as you're going to get from him. You should answer it or he really will be here. He's probably already in a cab.”

John straightens in his side of the booth and determination settles on his features. He nods at Greg's drink.

“Finish that.”

“Why?”

“Because, it's my birthday. And I've got a plan.”

While he's gulping the last of his pint, his phone goes off in his own pocket. He pulls it out as John is yanking his arms into his coat, twining his scarf again.

_I know John is with you. Tell him to answer his phone. -SH_

Greg looks over to John, who's watching him. John looks angry, but Greg senses almost an anxiousness beneath that glare, something upset and hurting and vengeful and Greg can never say no to people in peril. Or those seeking justice.

He deletes the text and tucks away the phone, smiling at John as he stands and puts on his own coat.

“So, where to, birthday boy?”

“Don't call me that.”

He sounds serious, but Greg can tell he's smiling as he follows the doctor out of the pub.

oOo

 

It's still a bit early and they take the tube to the other side of town. John weaves them through the press of the crowd getting off and up the stairs to the brisk cold night. They arrive at another pub, louder and newer than the one Greg frequents and in a part of town he rarely goes to.

There's the low throb of a noise violation as they approach the door. It's not busy enough for a line, but the bouncer at the door asks for their IDs anyway, which both of them think is hilarious. They get inside and John grabs Greg's wrist, warm fingers against his suddenly rapid pulse, and pulls him straight to the bar, ordering for the both of them. Greg cancels his shot and asks for just a pint, thank you.

The bartender brings the shot anyway and Greg starts on his third beer while John downs both the shots. Greg doesn't watch his throat work or the high flush that hits John's cheekbones as the burn slides down. He takes a larger sip.

“Have you had anything to eat today?”

John thinks about it for too long and nods.

“Yes. I made us dinner tonight. The ungrateful bastard. It's _my_ birthday.”

John scowls and snatches Greg's half-finished drink and swallows it in two gos. He drops it on the counter and puts his fist against his forehead for a second before smacking his hand flat on the bar.

“Let's go.”

Greg eyes his empty glass before finding that blond head, the determined step, bee-lining through groups of people to reach the exit. He pays for their drinks and follows.

oOo

 

On a few of these nights out, John had needed help getting to the tube, but was usually fine to make his way back to Baker Street. As Greg watches him get quickly plastered, he knows he'll probably need to call an actual cab this time.

But what would sending him back to 221B do? John was finally in a good mood. He told everyone at the fifth bar that it was his birthday and that Sherlock Holmes would never be able to find them now.

“I'm too clever.”

John tries to tap his own nose, but keeps missing, so he reaches out and touches Greg's nose instead, his finger sliding down over Greg's mouth and his chin in a heavy line. Greg pulls back, unsettled by how that felt, but John is oblivious, tugging on his scarf and swaying a moment before straightening his shoulders.

“Next pub!”

It's Greg who has to lead them outside this time and when John tries to turn around and go right back into the same bar they just left, he decides it's time to call it a night.

“John.”

“Hm?”

John turns to him and puts a warm hand on the crook of Greg's elbow to support himself when he tilts a little.

“It's time to go home.”

“Hmm?”

“It's time to go. You've had enough.”

Greg feels like he might have had enough too. John is a happy drunk – full of easy smiles, warm affection and lots of touching. He's had a hand on some part of Greg's body since the second pub, never proprietary or uncomfortable, but like he wants to make sure that Greg doesn't leave him. He's trying very, very hard not to call him 'cute', because that word doesn't fit his definition of John Watson, the tough, mad ex-solider with the nerves of a holy saint to live with his insane partner in solving crime.

But Greg's never seen John this drunk before. Maybe it's just a new side of John that was waiting for him. He wonders if Sherlock has ever seen him this drunk.

He shakes his head – _it's_ _always back to Sherlock_.

He doesn't want to think about Sherlock right now. He wants to think about John and how John is leaning against him making sleepy noises as he hails a cab. He wants to look out the window and pretend not to notice that John didn't scoot all they way over in the cab, but pressed himself completely along Greg's side and slid a hand inside his coat pocket.

He watches the London traffic and thinks. This is beyond old football matches and book reviews. They've never done this before. This is a level of friendship they don't have. This is a level of _comfort_ they don't have. Greg rarely even touches anyone anymore, not after his divorce. It's making him equal parts giddy and guilty.

He looks down at John who's lightly snoozing against his shoulder.

He should be doing this with Sherlock, his actual best friend.

Greg doesn't like the small loop his stomach does at the thought of that, so he ignores it and herds John out of the taxi, paying for the ride and digging out his keys as he props up John against the doorjamb of his flat. He grumbles while he twists the key hard to get the lock to work.

“You're an expensive date.”

John giggles, that breathless little trill that makes Greg wholly incapable of frowning.

“I'm worth it.”

Greg mutters under his breath.

“I bet you are.”

But John doesn't hear him as he ambles past the entrance and up the short stairs to Greg's flat. After he's done locking the door and ascending, he finds John standing in the middle of his living room, taking in his home. There's a TV and no couch, just a deep arm chair, wide enough for Greg to cross his legs tailor style and watch or read and an ottoman. His books line the walls in built-in shelves.

John looks over his shoulder, a bit sly.

“You took me home, Greg. You didn't even buy me dinner.”

Greg isn't sure how to react to pretty blatant flirting. He shrugs.

“No, but I bought you an awful lot of drinks. I didn't think you'd want to go home. Not after Sherlock was such a twat that he sent you into a drinking fit tonight.”

John turns to face him, frowning at his shoes. He crosses his arms.

“I didn't go drinking for him. It was for me.”

“It's your birthday, I know.”

  
He walks into his kitchen and runs John a glass of tap water. After a moment of hesitation, he runs one for himself too. He sets his own glass on his coffee table and thrusts the other at John.

“Drink this.”

John takes it and holds it with both hands near his chest, but doesn't drink. He's watching Greg.

“Do you think... do you think I surprised him?”

Greg drops down on the large, round ottoman in front his chair and reaches for his water, toeing off his shoes and wiggling his toes.

“What do you mean?”

John puts the water down and folds one knee to sit sideways on the ottoman, facing Greg.

“I was trying to out-think him. I wanted to be the clever one for once. Cleverer.”

Greg laughs and sets his water down, a bloom of affection for the silly man beside him making his chest ache and warm at the same time. He turns to face him a little better.

“So you decided to go to six bars to make him lose our trail? We should talk to Mycroft about MI6 for you.”

John snorts and crinkles his nose, his eyelids heavy and his smile lazy.

“I told you I was being clever.”

He leans forward as if to whisper, but the words come out at the same volume.

“A surprise.”

“For him or for you?”

John can't parse the question, so he leans the extra bit forward and pushes his mouth against Greg's. They both sit there for a moment, mouths pressed together, breathing through their noses and it's not in the least bit sexy, but a wave of heat strikes Greg so quickly that his body feels paralyzed for a moment. Then John works his jaw and closes his eyes and Greg pulls his hands up to hold John's face.

John pulls back after a moment, confused.

“It's me.”

Greg is still holding his face, too dumbfounded to let go.

“What?”

“You asked if the surprise was for him or for me. This was a surprise. For me. I surprised myself.”

John reaches forward with the boldness of the drunk and runs his fingers along the curve of his jaw before brushing them across his open mouth. He licks his own lips and watches Greg's throat bob with nervousness. His grin turns wicked.

“I love surprises.”

Greg's heart is rabbiting in his chest. This is ridiculous. They're two grown men, one past forty and one about to be there. John's also had more than a little to drink and Greg can taste that last Jagerbomb on his lips now, so there is no way this is happening.

He drops his hands, but John takes it as an invitation to push closer and drag warm lips across his pulse point. He presses an open mouthed kiss there and it shakes Greg to his bones. It shames him how quickly he starts putting aside words like 'consent' and 'regret' and pulls John up by his jumper collar and slides his tongue into his mouth.

John makes a low noise and now he's pushing and prodding Greg to where he wants him, guiding him from sitting to propped elbows leaning back, half against the ottoman and half against the seat of the chair. They barely part for breath and John swings his leg over Greg's spread legs, settling on top of his thighs. Greg's wide hands fit perfectly on the curve of John's hips and he lets himself fall further backwards, John following to a crouching position over his torso.

They don't stay like this for long, the position uncomfortable for John. He breaks the kiss to pull his jumper over his head, leaving his undershirt in favor of reaching for Greg's. When he fumbles with the buttons, Greg initially chalks it up to nerves, but after John squints and misses the buttons again, it feels like a splash of cold water in his face. He straightens, which forces John further down his lap, back onto the ottoman. He tries to scoot backwards, retreating to the imagined safety of the armchair.

John now kneels on the ottoman, resting on his heels and breathing heavily, his legs spread wide. It presses the material of his trousers tighter against his crotch and outlines his erection in shocking contrast. Greg can't stop staring and his protests halt on their way to his mouth.

John ruffles a hand through his hair and sighs.

“What is it?”

Greg looks up to his face and recognizes the frustration. They had been doing so well just a minute ago. Why had Greg stopped? He licks his lips and tastes alcohol again. Oh, right.

“We can't have sex.”

“Who says we can't?”

“ _I_ say we can't. How many drinks have you had tonight?”

“Six.”

“Eight, John.”

“See, that's what I have you for.”

John's affable again and when he drops to his hands and knees to crawl up to Greg's seated position, the inspector feels his resolve crumbling further. John settles himself back in his previous position, knees on either side of Greg's hips, but not quite dropped low enough to touch.

He props his hands on either side of Greg's head at the top of the chair and leans in close to his mouth, sharing breath.

“Now see, I can hear your brain working, Lestrade.”

They share a slow kiss, just deep enough for Greg to moan before John pulls back to run his nose along his jaw.

“I know what a whirling brain sounds like. I live with one.”

He reaches Greg's ear and swipes his tongue over the rim, speaking quietly.

“I wish you'd shut yours off like he can't.”

Always back to Sherlock.

Greg puts his hands back on John's hips and yanks him down into his lap. It surprises the doctor and he wiggles against Greg's obvious interest in him. He starts to laugh and leans in to kiss him again, but the serious look on Greg's face stops him. He sobers a little and they stare at each other before Greg speaks.

“I won't let this be a pity fuck, John."

He pushes him down and grinds his hips upwards, causing John to tip his head back and breath through his teeth. After a moment John presses down, his hips circling and it's Greg's turn to gasp, his eyes nearly rolling back as John continues, leaning forward on his arms and huffing into Greg's mouth. Every few words is punctuated by a hard roll of his hips and Greg finds himself helpless to deny their rhythm.

“You are anything but a pity fuck. Have you seen yourself? I'm lucky to be in your lap.”

He pushes his sweaty forehead against Greg's and frantically undoes his shirt buttons, hips continuing to press and ache against each other. He gets them undone and leans down to bite Greg's collar bone, causing him to buck his hips and John moans, the sound shocking them both. John keeps going while Greg tears at his shirt. Somehow John finds the brain cells for more words.

“Oh God, no you're anything but that. I'd let you – ah! – fuck me without any pity whatsoever.”

John's shirt goes over the back of the chair and they both reach for each other's trousers at the same time. John shoves Greg's hands out of the way with an annoyed grunt that makes Greg laugh, but he allows it. John scoots back a little and finally gets the zip undone, allowing Greg to wriggle a bit and pull his trousers down enough for John to reach inside and grab his cock. Greg isn't laughing anymore.

Their foreheads are pressed together again as John strokes wonderingly. His voice drops back down to a whisper, dirty and intimate between them as they both watch John working him.

“I'd let you finger me for hours. I've done it to myself but, oh your fingers, they'd be so perfect – look how thick they are.”

He reaches for one of Greg's hands on his waist and pulls it to his mouth, sucking two fingers in and swirling his tongue around them. His hips kick in little involuntary circles. Greg's mind is more than halfway gone at this point – who knew John Watson had such a filthy mouth? – but he can see John straining against his trousers and reluctantly, he pulls his fingers out of John's mouth with a sluggish trail of saliva connecting them for a moment before it drops.

John licks his lips when he realizes what Greg's trying to do and gives a sharp twist to the head of his cock, just on the edge of pain and pleasure. Greg puts his hand over John's to stop him for a minute, panting.

“I'm going to be finished before we even get your trousers open if you don't stop that.”

John pauses long enough for Greg to shove his underwear out of the way and then they're both sitting there with their cocks out, staring one at the other. Greg thinks about how many times he's looked at John's arse at a crime scene, how many times he's watched him wrinkle his nose at the awful tea from the Scotland Yard canteen. This was John Watson, warm and wanting in his lap with his dick curving out of his jeans and kiss bitten mouth.

They're going to have to see each other again after this. John must see the panic creeping in.

“Shut up.”

He spits in his hand and grabs Greg, stroking him a few times before spitting again and nudging closer. As soon as John's cock touches his own, the wet head sliding just underneath the ridge of his, panic flees and is replaced by fierce lust. He must have John Watson, fuck the consequences.

“That's right. Come on.”

  
He spits on his own fingers and reaches down, tangling his grip with John's, snapping his hips into their furled fists and trying not to keen into the space between them. He feels like his chest is going to snap with the pressure inside him and John keeps making these tiny broken noises as he squeezes his fingers tighter and tighter around them and Greg is never, _ever_ going to forget that sound.

“Ah, Christ, that's it Greg, think about doing this again. I could suck you off and then flip you over and shove my cock so far up your arse you won't sit right for a month.”

John nips at Greg's mouth and he can't help the whispered 'please' that escapes him from all the images those words brought to mind. He reaches back and digs the fingers of one hand into John's arse, pushing him closer, so close, almost there.

They're both trembling and sweat drips off the tip of John's nose to land on their working hands. He spreads his legs even wider, rocking so hard into their combined fists that Greg knows they'll have bruises. He bites his bottom lip before letting out a shocked yelp when John bites it for him and they share biting, frantic kisses as they coil tighter and tighter.

Greg comes first, a shockwave that starts between them and pulls every muscle in his body taut until he is paralyzed with pleasure. His come floods the crevices between their fingers and John looks down and makes a noise almost like pain while he jerks their combined grip faster. He comes soon after, the combined mess between them making slick noises as John slowly rolls his hips in absolute indulgence, pulling every last drop of his orgasm out before puffing a breath and dropping his head to Greg's shoulder.

They lay there, hands still linked for a long while. Greg kept his eyes closed, enjoying the smell and the closeness of another human being. He allows himself one tiny moment to think about what John said, about next time before there is a loud rapping at the front door. Of course.

John immediately stiffens and stares at Greg in alarm, cold sobriety slapping both of them in the face. The rapping grows louder and more frequent. Their cooling release was growing tacky between and John tries to scramble backwards, but his legs are asleep. He ends ups halfway on and halfway off Greg's lap, flaccid cock in the crease of his hips and his pants around his knees. Greg grabs his forearm to stop him falling off the side of the ottoman.

“He can't break my lock.”

There's a loud crack from downstairs and it appears he most definitely can.

Before either of them can compose themselves further, Sherlock is in the room with them. Greg just closes his eyes and waits for this part to be over with. He's ready for the knifed insults and the great screaming matches and the awkward crimes scenes for weeks to come. Or maybe years.

What he doesn't expect is the hurt he can hear in Sherlock's voice when he finally speaks, that plummy baritone low and raw and utterly unlike the detective.

“John.”

Greg opens his eyes in surprise to see John stuffing himself back inside his jeans, face set in a blank. He smooths his hands over his thighs, his back turned to Sherlock. The detective can't see John's face, but Greg can and he knows the hurt is there in John too.

He awkwardly cleans himself up, but he knows they can't all sit there in broody silence forever. He nudges John, who looks to him from the corner of his eye. Greg tries to smile as reassuringly as he can in such a fucking terrible situation. The last thing ever on his to-do list was to have Sherlock Holmes walk in on him post-coital. Add in the detective's best friend and it wasn't even a footnote to his list.

John sighs and composes himself.

“What do you want Sherlock?”

Sherlock is shocked back to the moment.

“I want you to come home. You haven't been answering your phone.”

Greg watches John's shoulders tighten.

“Well, I didn't want to, did I? I went out and – what was it? – 'wallowed in my baser urges.' And I had a bloody good time doing it too. I was too busy to answer the _phone_.”

The two idiots are still not looking at one another and Greg feels like a referee at the world's worst emotional sports match. As soon as the words leave John's mouth, Sherlock's face shuts down, but Greg knows that face – Sherlock is hurt even more than before and John's digging himself a black hole he's going to have trouble escaping from.

Up goes the collar on Sherlock's coat and the dramatic twirl, ready to exit stage left. Greg waits for the parting shot.

“Fine. Stay.”

Oh.

Sherlock slams the door downstairs.

It was worst than Greg thought. There wasn't even an insult thrown in their about either of their intelligences. In fact, Greg wasn't mentioned or acknowledged at all by Sherlock. He reaches out a hand to slide down John's shoulder blade.

John seems to remember that he's there suddenly and he gives him a crooked smile. An apology on it's own. John didn't get the full conversation here. Greg sighs and wonders that this man has turned thirty-nine years old today and could still be such an idiot.

He rolls his eyes and shrugs one shoulder at his front door.

“Go after him.”

“What?”

Greg sits up further and pulls John around to face him, pressing a firm kiss to his frowning mouth. When he pulls back, he's shocked John enough to make him listen.

“John Watson, I do not love you.”

John's eyebrows crease in confusion. Greg doesn't let him open his mouth. He points in the direction of the door.

“But that man does.”

He holds up his hand to stop the oncoming protests.

“And if you do not go run after him right now and kiss him senseless, I'm never letting him on another crime scene again and then you'll have to live with a Sherlock on no cases.”

John laughs and shoves his shoulder.

“You wouldn't do that.”

“Test me.”

John's smile fades and he looks over at the steps leading to the front door. Greg gives him a small smile when he turns back.

“Trust me.”

John searches his face and leans in for a slow, lingering kiss – an apology and a thank you all in one. When he pulls back, Greg pushes his fringe off his forehead.

“You're welcome. Now go grab your shirt and get out of here, I'm tired.”

John laughs and reaches for his shoes.

“So much for a casual lay.”

“This was no casual lay. You're going to owe me a _lot_ of favors after this.”

“Type me up a list. I'll get to it later.”

John's already got his shirt on and is almost to the door before he pauses, comes back to the chair and presses a kiss to Greg's forehead. Greg calls out to him as he's almost to the door.

“Happy birthday, John.”

John's laughter carries him to the street. Greg dozes off in his chair, wondering what birthday gift John could possibly ever get him to top this one.

 


End file.
